Minute directions were then given as to where and how the money was to be deposited.  Mme. la Comtesse de Nole was, on the third day from this at six o’clock in the evening precisely, to go in person and alone to the angle of the Rue Guenegaud and the Rue Mazarine, at the rear of the Institut.

There two men would meet her, one of whom would have Carissimo in his arms; to the other she must hand over the money, whereupon the pet would at once be handed back to her.  But if she failed to keep this appointment, or if in the meanwhile she made the slightest attempt to trace the writer of the missive or to lay a trap for his capture by the police, Carissimo would at once meet with a summary death.

These were the usual tactics of experienced dog thieves, only that in this case the demand was certainly exorbitant.  Five thousand francs!  But even so . . .  I cast a rapid and comprehensive glance on the brilliant apparition before me—­the jewelled rings, the diamonds in the shell-like ears, the priceless fur coat—­and with an expressive shrug of the shoulders I handed the dirty scrap of paper back to its fair recipient.

“Alas, Madame,” I said, taking care that she should not guess how much it cost me to give her such advice, “I am afraid that in such cases there is nothing to be done.  If you wish to save your pet you will have to pay. . .”

“Ah! but, Monsieur,” she exclaimed tearfully, “you don’t understand.  Carissimo is all the world to me, and this is not the first time, nor yet the second, that he has been stolen from me.  Three times, my good M. Ratichon, three times has he been stolen, and three times have I received such peremptory demands for money for his safe return; and every time the demand has been more and more exorbitant.  Less than a month ago M. le Comte paid three thousand francs for his recovery.”

“Monsieur le Comte?” I queried.

“My husband, Sir,” she replied, with an exquisite air of hauteur.  “M. le Comte de Nole de St. Pris.”

“Ah, then,” I continued calmly, “I fear me that Monsieur de Nole de St. Pris will have to pay again.”

“But he won’t!” she now cried out in a voice broken with sobs, and incontinently once more saturated her gossamer handkerchief with her tears.

“Then I see nothing for it, Madame,” I rejoined, much against my will with a slight touch of impatience, “I see nothing for it but that yourself . . .”

“Ah! but, Monsieur,” she retorted, with a sigh that would have melted a heart of stone, “that is just my difficulty.  I cannot pay . . .”

“Madame,” I protested.

“Oh! if I had money of my own,” she continued, with an adorable gesture of impatience, “I would not worry.  Mais voila:  I have not a silver franc of my own to bless myself with.  M. le Comte is over generous.  He pays all my bills without a murmur—­he pays my dressmaker, my furrier; he loads me with gifts and dispenses charity on a lavish scale in my name.  I have horses, carriages, servants—­everything I can possibly want and more, but I never have more than a few hundred francs to dispose of.  Up to now I have never for a moment felt the want of money.  To-day, when Carissimo is being lost to me, I feel the entire horror of my position.”